


I like the way your body moving (I like the way you spread confusion)

by intravenusann



Series: The Stripper AU [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Fingering, Bartenders, Drunk Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Lapdance, M/M, Oral Sex, Religious Guilt, Sex Work, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: While attending a faith conference with his family, Credence Barebone finds an opportunity to leave behind his small, ordinary life and indulge the fantasies he's always carried inside his head — if only for a few hours.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to the Tumblr anon who encouraged this so much!! 
> 
> Title is from [9 (After Coachella) by Cashmere Cat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDOCScOT-Mo). But you could listen to T-Pain's Bartender or Ginuwine's Pony while reading this and it would fit the #mood

Credence picks up the newspaper by chance in the airport, while waiting for Mary Lou, Chastity, and Modesty to use the restroom after their arrival. The flight from New York wasn’t long, but the seat was too small for Credence’s legs. He just wants to be standing.

“Excuse me, sir,” the girl at the newstand says. “You have to pay for the periodicals before reading ‘em.”

He’s so embarrassed that he pays without looking her in the eye. But it seems like a sign, when he sees an ad many pages deep in the entertainment section.

“What are you reading, Credence?” Modesty asks. She tries to lean into his space from the other end of the backseat of their rental car.

“There’s a recipe here that sounds interesting,” he says, before Mary Lou shushes them. 

There is no recipe, of course, there is a black and white newsprint photo of a shirtless man in an ad only about three inches tall and an inch wide. It says it’s for a place called “Magic.”

Mary Lou drives them to their hotel near the convention center where the three-day family ministry conference, Hand In Hand, will be held. Mary Lou was invited to speak about the New Salem Philanthropic Society and about faith’s call to foster and adopt children in need. 

Credence has felt sick to his stomach the whole way here, but it’s probably because of the flight. He’s never been on a plane before.

“Atlanta is just beautiful,” Chastity says. “A truly Christian city, did you see how many signs there were along the highway?”

Credence nods and hands her the card for her room door. Chastity and Modesty will share one room and he will share Mary Lou’s room.

“It’s different at home,” she repeats. “I want to keep a close eye on you here, it’s a strange city and you’ve never been anywhere else before. Chastity has gone to these kinds of conferences before, at least.”

Credence nods.

There is a whole slate of activities for children Modesty’s age, and Chastity plans to meet with some girls she’s met before at other faith events.

“Only girls?” Mary Lou asks, and Chastity goes a bit paler when she nods.

“I swear,” she says.

Credence meets her eye and she looks away, which means she’s lying. But he doesn’t care anymore.

He helps Mary Lou organize her notes before her presentation and mostly stays out of the way as much as he can. No one is particularly interested in meeting him, only Mary Lou.

A pastor from Colorado and his wife invite Mary Lou to dinner that night — with an overnight prayer vigil for the unborn to follow.

“Of course,” she says. “I would be honored.”

She gives him five dollars and tells him to spend it wisely.

Credence thinks of the advertisement in the paper. He thinks of the twenty dollars he still has left after buying the paper.

Those kinds of places exist in New York City, of course. He knows that. He knows what kind of wickedness lives in his own city, the starving children and dead-eyed junkies shooting up on the sidewalk. In the summer, men and women walk around with their whole bodies on display while the streets reek of overflowing garbage. On the subway, he sees men in beards and pink high heels alongside women in heavy black veils.

Mary Lou says it’s a wicked city, that men like that didn’t have a mother to teach them right from wrong and women like that are beaten and raped by their fathers and husbands.

Credence can believe it. He wears long sleeves and a jacket even in summer. He’s going to go to this Magic place, if he can find it.

He buys a map in the hotel lobby. He can’t look up the directions on his phone — a five-year-old Android — because Mary Lou might see it. She knows his phone passcode and he is certain that she checks. She does the same to Chastity, of course, and she is two years older than he is. 

Chastity also has a much nicer, newer phone, but Credence wonders if it’s really worth it knowing that Mary Lou checks everything she does on it almost daily.

Anyway, Credence finds the address on the map and figures New York has given him plenty of practice in walking.

But summer in Atlanta feels like trying to walk through boiling soup. Credence’s collar has soaked through with sweat by the time he reaches the edge of the hotel parking lot.

He deserves this, he figures.

He could tell himself that he wants to go to this place to find out if his desires are real or not. Maybe he will be disgusted after all! What’s in his head will be horrifying in the flesh, and he’ll run out of the place ready, truly ready, to repent and reform.

But Credence knows that’s not true.

“Hey!” someone calls. “Do you need a ride?”

A blue sedan pulls up alongside Credence in the parking lot. The passenger side window rolls down and Credence sees a dark-haired woman leaning over the seat.

“Need a ride?”

“No,” Credence says.

“Are you sure?” the woman asks. “Cause I just dropped off my last customer and I’m free.”

“I don’t have any money,” Credence lies.

“That’s fine,” she says. “It’s way too hot out there to walk and you look pretty miserable.”

Credence tries to look at this woman as harshly as he can, because he has nothing to say to that. It  _ is _ too hot.

The passenger door opens.

“Where are you walking to?” the woman asks.

“Northside Drive,” Credence says.

“That’s way too far to walk,” she says. “Especially in this humidity. Go ahead and get in.”

“I don’t know you,” Credence says.

“Tina,” she says, with a smile. “Tina Goldstein. I’d say ‘and I’m your Uber driver today,’ but…”

She shrugs.

“Credence,” he says.

He opens the passenger door wider and steps in. There’s actually enough room for his legs, with the front seat pushed all the way back. Also, Tina’s blue sedan has air conditioning strong enough to sweep the hair off Credence’s damp forehead.

“Are you from New York?” Tina asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Me too,” Tina says. “Moved down here to be closer to my sister after she got hitched.”

“Congratulations to your sister,” Credence says.

“Yeah, she’s… she’s real happy,” Tina says.

After a beat, she asks, “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Church conference,” Credence says.

They’ve drifted around the parking lot to the exit. 

“So what address?” Tina asks, typing Northside into the phone stuck to the dash in a little harness.

Credence recites the address from memory.

“Oh, isn’t that —” Tina starts. She looks at Credence. 

Credence doesn’t dare breathe.

“Uh, the, uhm, a guy that I know,” she starts. “He works there. It’s a pretty OK place. You’re going alone or meeting someone?”

“I’m alone,” Credence says.

“Do you want my number?” Tina asks, as she pulls out onto the street in front of the hotel. “If you need someone to pick you up, I could come get you.”

How would Credence explain a call to a strange Atlanta number sometime in the evening to Mary Lou? He doesn’t know. He shakes his head.

“Oh,” Tina says. “Well, what if I just swing by around midnight? I’ll hang out for a while and if you need a ride, I’ll be there.”

Credence blinks. “Why are you doing this?”

Tina shrugs. “You’re another Yankee here in the South. And I mean… You look like you could use somebody in your corner.”

“What?” Credence asks.

“In your corner,” Tina says. “Like boxing?”

Credence looks at her oddly.

“Never mind,” she says, taking a left turn at the next light.

“I’m just trying to do a good thing for someone else,” Tina says. “Maybe it’ll come back to me someday.”

“Maybe,” Credence says.

They ride in silence for a while, before Tina reaches over and pops open the central console.

“You want some candy?” she asks.

Credence figures he’s already gotten into a car with a strange woman. If there are drugs in the candy, he deserves it. He picks up a Milky Way bar.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Oh hey, that’s my favorite too,” Tina says, glancing over at him.

His teeth are sticky with caramel when they pull up in front of a squat beige building with a large neon-blue M above the door.

“Well,” Tina says. “This is it.”

Credence swallows and his saliva tastes like chocolate.

“You’ll be back at midnight?” he asks.

Tina blinks. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that.”

She smiles at him and he tries to smile back.

“Oh hey,” she says, scrambling for her wallet. “Here, take this. If you see — oh, what’s his stage name — if you see Apollo, just slip this in his waistband for me.”

She hands him a twenty-dollar bill.

“What?” Credence asks.

“He’s cute!” Tina says. “Or, well, I mean, I think he’s cute. Maybe he won’t be your type, but I think he works tonight. It’s a Thursday.”

“Thank you,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

His knees shake a little as he walks through the door. There’s a woman at the counter, a foot shorter than him even in heels. She has white blonde hair that’s made blue by the dim lights. She checks his ID.

“Alright, Mr. Barebone, would you like to exchange any money tonight?” she asks.

He hands over the twenty from Tina, plus Mary Lou’s five dollar bill and the rest of his own money.

She hands him back forty-five one dollar bills.

“Have a wonderful night, Mr. Barebone,” she says, with a smile that doesn’t show any of her teeth.

He doesn’t know what to expect when he goes downstairs, but he finds more blue lights and a pool table. Two men in jeans and boots have a game going, and Credence steps carefully around the table so they don’t notice him. There’s a bar, and very many places to sit. He sees the stage almost last, as though he’s avoiding it.

There, to the beat of a pounding electronic song, a man who is all hard lines and curves of muscle rolls his hips in a way that makes every muscle in his thighs stand out. He turns around and before he bends over, Credence looks away.

His heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest from pounding so hard.

He looks at the bar, at the two older men seated there who are staring at the stage. The bartender looks at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he’s pouring into a drink. He looks up and catches Credence’s eye.

Credence looks at his shoes. It’s the only safe place to look.

He finds a place to sit, far away from the stage, but still close enough to see it. Because he came here for this, and he won’t pretend he didn’t. It’s different than what he’s found on the internet, or looking at art. He can see flesh move, light reflecting off skin.

The dancer on stage has dark, smooth skin that Credence can just imagine his hands against.

He clenches his hands in fists at his side.

The next dancer has big muscles, all curves and swells. His thighs move in a way that Credence knows is sexual, even though all he knows about sex is pornography and his left hand. He’s hardly the son that Mary Lou wants. He’s hardly the man he wishes he was.

Does he wish he was a man like that? Big and muscular with a neck as thick as his jawline?

Does he want to be that man on stage?

Or does he want to be fucked by a man like that?

Credence feels dizzy with thoughts like this when he hears over the pounding music, “Our next dancer is Apollo, you know, ladies, like the Greek god. Only this one’s British.”

The man Tina told him to give her twenty dollars to licks his lips as he unbuttons his shirt. He’s not as good a dancer as the first dancer, but Credence can’t look away from his lithe muscles. He thinks of pagan statues, marble idols, but with freckles.

His hands shake when he tries to count out twenty ones.

He slips up to the edge of the stage while Apollo is on his knees thrusting his dick at another man. Credence sees the man’s hand on Apollo’s ass. He leaves the ones and hurries back to his seat.

At the end of his song, Apollo collects the money off the stage. He’s sort of half-hard, Credence notices. He has a sort of nice-looking dick and Credence can easily imagine putting it in his mouth.

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, while Apollo looks around at the thin crowd.

Then, halfway through the next dancer’s song, Apollo walks right up to him. Credence stares at him with wide eyes.

“You’re the one who left twenty on the stage,” he says. “Aren’t you?”

At least he’s wearing pants now.

Credence blinks.

Apollo sits on the arm of his chair and Credence shrinks away from him.

“I’m sorry,” Apollo says. “I’m not trying to scare you. I wanted to thank you. Maybe we could talk?”

Credence chews on the sides of his tongue.

“Tina told me to,” he says, eventually. He feels like he’s spitting out something that tastes awful.

“Oh!” Apollo says. “You know Tina? Well, I don’t usually talk about her here, obviously.”

Credence blinks.

“She drove me here,” he offers.

“She’s actually getting her Master’s in social work,” Apollo tells him. “The Uber thing for her is like dancing is for me, but I imagine less fun.”

“That’s interesting,” Credence says. He’s looking at Apollo’s abs instead of his face, but his face is nice looking too. It’s just… harder to look at.

“Are you in school?” Apollo asks. “You look almost too young to be in here.”

“No,” Credence says, defensive. “And I’m twenty-one.”

He didn’t go to college. Mary Lou didn’t want him exposed to the drugs and Satanism she says college campuses are full of.

“I’m sorry,” Apollo says. “I meant that as a compliment! You have a very pretty face.”

Credence looks down at his lap, then back at Apollo’s abs.

“I would usually offer you a private dance,” Apollo says, “but I don’t even know if you’re attracted to me or if you were just doing Tina a favor.”

He could tell Apollo that he is attracted to him, but then what? What is Credence supposed to do then? He came here just to confirm what he really always knew. He’s interested in men like this, physically.

He doesn’t want to assume Apollo is a prostitute just because he dances naked. He’s a student, which is more than Credence can say for himself. A private dance probably costs extra, also.

“How much is it?” he asks, finally.

“Twenty five,” Apollo says — all the money that Credence has left.

He sighs. It’s barely past eight. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he uses up all his money now.

“Maybe later,” he says, forcing himself to look up at Apollo’s face.

He’s smiling. “Alright, I’ll look forward to it.”

Credence’s heart feels like it’s pounding inside his ears to the beat of the music.

Apollo disappears from his side, but Credence sees him walk over to the bar and speak to the bartender. He sees the bartender look over at him, but Credence looks away as quickly as he can.

There are other dancers, with different body types. Some are big and bulky, others slim and petite. All of them, Credence thinks, look good. They all have something he can’t quite look away from. But he only has twenty five dollars left, and what if he does want a dance? A dance from Apollo, maybe?

As though Credence’s thoughts have summoned him, Apollo appears with a drink on a tray.

“I didn’t order anything,” he says.

“It’s on the house,” Apollo says. “A gift from Mr. Graves.”

“Who’s Mr. Graves?” Credence asks.

“The bartender,” Apollo says. “Well, and co-owner.”

He nods toward the bar and Credence looks, just for a moment, and catches the man’s eyes.

“Anyway, I have to get ready to get on stage,” Apollo says. He winks, a little awkwardly, and smiles at Credence. “Hope you enjoy the show.”

He does, in fact, enjoy the show.

From the stage, Apollo looks right at him and moves his body so that Credence can see every muscle. It makes him feel short of breath and hot all over. Other men around the stage keep glancing over at Credence, because Apollo’s looking at him and grinning.

When Apollo steps off the stage, naked and dripping sweat, one of the men gets up and walks over to Credence.

“That your boyfriend on stage?” the man asks.

Credence shrinks as far back into his seat as he can. He looks down and shuts his eyes.

“Hey kid,” the man says. “I asked you a question.”

“Hello love!” Apollo’s voice says two seconds before he drops into Credence’s lap still sweaty and naked. “This man isn’t bothering you about me, is he?”

Apollo’s arm is slung over Credence’s shoulders and his skin is burning hot against the back of Credence’s neck.

When Credence finally meets Apollo’s eyes, he looks almost worried. Credence blinks.

“He wasn’t bothering me,” Credence says.

“That’s good, love,” Apollo says. “Because if he was bothering you, I think Mr. Graves would be _very_ upset with him.”

This, Apollo turns and directs at the strange man.

“Whatever,” the man says, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets and walking away.

“Thanks for being a good sport about that,” Apollo says. “I’ll get off you now.”

For a moment, Credence swears he heard Apollo say, “I’ll get you off.”

“Can I have a sip of your drink?” Apollo asks. “Since it doesn’t look like you’re drinking it.”

“Yes, go ahead,” Credence says.

Still sitting in his lap, Apollo picks up the drink and puts the straw in his mouth.

“It’s just a rum and coke,” he says, after he takes a sip. “It’s basically soda.”

Mary Lou doesn’t let them drink soda, Credence thinks, as he takes the drink back from Apollo’s hand. She certainly does not allow them to drink alcohol.

He’s shaking when Apollo gets off his lap and walks away. There’s sweat on his clothes now that isn’t his. Credence puts the straw in his mouth and takes a long sip.

The soda is incredibly sweet, sweeter than anything Credence has ever had. It’s sweeter than candy and burns at the back of his throat. He likes it, though it makes him shut his eyes as he swallows.

He drinks half of the glass before the next song is over.

The bottom of his stomach feels cold then, but it burns the same as the back of his tongue.

He takes his time to finish the rest — at least three songs instead of one.

Then, while the dancer on stage drops into a hard split that makes Credence’s eyebrow go up, a fresh drink appears where his empty glass was.

He looks up and sees the bartender, Mr. Graves, standing only a few inches away and looking at him.

“A suit in a strip club,” Mr. Graves says. “You hardly look old enough to be an accountant.”

“I’m not,” Credence says.

“A Mormon, then?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No, sir,” Credence says. “I’m a Christian.”

This makes Mr. Graves nod his head. “There’s a convention in town, but you’re rather young.”

“I’m legal,” Credence says. “I turn twenty-two in October.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Mr. Graves says.

He holds his hand out. “Graves.”

“Apollo told me,” Credence says, taking the man’s hand and shaking it.

“And you are?” he asks.

He ought to lie, but no easy name comes to mind.

“Credence,” he says.

“A beautiful name for a Christian,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence feels his face getting hot and he pulls his hand away from Mr. Graves’.

“We play a bit of a game here around ten,” Mr. Graves says. “I wondered if you might take part in it.”

He swallows, thinking of all kinds of obscene things. “What kind of game?”

“Members of our audience get on stage and offer a dance to the dancer that chooses them — or that they choose,” Mr. Graves says. “I assume you would pick Apollo.”

“Could I pick you?” Credence thinks.

“I am not one of the dancers,” Mr. Graves says, which makes Credence realize that he said that out loud. “A bit past my prime, I’m afraid.”

Credence stares straight ahead in horror at himself.

“I’m flattered, Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “Enjoy your drink.”

He puts the straw in his mouth and tries to drown himself in the second rum and coke, just as sticky-sweet as the first.

When he next sees Apollo, he’s not naked, just nearly so, with his hair falling in his face in sweaty ringlets.

“Will you do it?” Apollo asks.

Credence blinks at him.

“Okay,” he says, still holding his empty glass in both hands.

Apollo grins at him, and he has really nice, straight teeth. They look brilliantly white in the blue light of the club.

“See you on stage,” Apollo says, before walking away. He has very lean legs, Credence thinks. They’re very long. He has very long legs himself, but they don’t look that good. Credence doesn’t think he could ever look that good.

It finally hits him that he just agreed to go on stage with Apollo. Credence’s stomach tries to reject his two rum and cokes, but he swallows. He presses his thumb to the tender side of his wrist, the way he taught Modesty to for carsickness. The nausea passes over him in a wave.

He thinks, briefly, of getting another drink, when he hears Mr. Graves’ voice over the pounding music.

“Gentlemen, as usual on Thursday night, we have a bit of a game for you.”

Two chairs are arranged on the stage while another man in a tight shirt that says “MAGIC” across the back wipes down the stagefloor.

“Our dancers have picked two of their favorites tonight to give you a very special show,” Mr. Graves says, over the music.

Apollo sweeps over and Credence is torn between regret and desire. He has an unbuttoned shirt over his arms and half-tucked into his dark blue pants. Credence lets Apollo take his hands in his, and looks at the freckle right above the man’s hipbone.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he says.

Credence doesn’t feel nervous so much as nauseated.

He doesn’t even think about how everyone can see him until he’s walking up the stairs onto the stage. Apollo holds his hand and leads him to one of the chairs.

“Just focus on me,” Apollo says. “And have fun!”

The music changes and Apollo puts one hand on Credence’s hip, which he takes to be a cue. He’s shaking and feels lost. He’s been watching other men dance for two hours, but he’s never done anything like this before.

But he has thought quite a lot about what he might do, if he could. And this, far from home and out of his mother’s grasp for a few hours, feels like it may be the only opportunity he ever gets to try it.

His hands tremble slightly right before he sets them on Apollo’s knees. At the smallest nudge, Apollo spreads his legs and smiles up at Credence.

“I can touch you?” he asks, leaning over Apollo.

“Yes, yes,” the man says. “Go ahead.”

Credence drops to his knees hard enough to make him wince and puts his face between Apollo’s legs. The thump of the music disappears beneath the sound of Credence’s heart pounding. His hands move up the fabric of Apollo’s pants, feeling hard muscle underneath. His body is so warm and solid under Credence’s hands.

Apollo reaches down and Credence sees him take the end of his tie in both hands. He doesn’t pull, but Credence moves all the same. He keeps his face close enough to Apollo’s skin that he can smell sweat and clean skin. He braces himself with two hands on Apollo’s waist.

His tie slides free from his collar into Apollo’s hands.

Credence looks the man dead in the eye; in this light, his eyes are blue.

In two moves, he shucks his jacket off and swings it around, hanging it half off the chair and half off Apollo’s shoulders. This makes him smile and laugh, which Credence can hear even over the music.

“You’re really putting on a show for Mr. Graves, aren’t you?” Apollo says, and Credence wasn’t thinking of that.

But now he is.

The chair has no arms, just a metal back and padded seat, so Credence puts one leg and then the other across Apollo’s hips. He sits down right in Apollo’s lap and leans back as far as he can go.

“I got you,” Apollo says, and there’s a hand against his lower back. He goes over backwards until all the blood rushes to his head. Then Apollo’s hand on his back urges him back up.

He’s moving his hips without thinking much about it. There’s a beat to the music and he realizes he must be drunk.

Credence starts to unbutton his shirt when Apollo leans forward and bites the fabric. The buttons slide free too easily, slightly loose in their stitching and well-worn. The thin, white fabric sticks to his skin from sweat.

He pulls the shirt free from his belt and it falls open.

Apollo looks at Credence’s bare skin, sweaty and pale, and he grins.

Credence grins back.

He licks his lips and starts to pull his shirt off, just as the song starts to change.

“Thank you, dancers and amateurs,” Mr. Graves’ voice interrupts.

“That was great,” Apollo tells him, still holding his tie.

“Thank you,” Credence says. He starts buttoning his shirt back up. Apollo drapes his tie around his neck.

“I'll collect your money,” Apollo says, as Credence staggers off his lap. He stumbles on the stage and catches himself hard on his heels.

“What?” Credence asks, but then he looks down and sees single dollar bills across the stage floor.

“I'd say we won,” Apollo says, grinning at him.

He hands Crendence his jacket and forty dollars or more in ones before Credence even has all his shirt buttons closed again.

His knees shake as he goes down the stage stairs.

“I have to say, honestly, I didn't expect all that from you,” Apollo says, clapping a hand on Credence’s shoulder. “You're a natural.”

Of course, Credence thinks. He's never been good at being _good_. But apparently he's good at getting men to give him money for unbuttoning his shirt.

It's only three minutes after 10 on Credence’s phone.

He goes back to his seat in the corner to get his clothes straightened out. He's just retying his tie when Mr. Graves appears again. Credence looks at him and accidentally ties his thumb in the knot of his tie.

“Do I have to give the money to you?” he asks.

Mr. Graves closes his eyes and smirks. “No, it’s yours to keep. Though I’m certain the dancers would love to earn it from you.”

“Oh,” Credence says. He hasn’t had a chance to count it, but he’s certain it’s more than he came through the door with.

“I think you can buy your own drinks now,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence licks his lips.

“How much is the rum and coke?” he asks.

“Seven dollars,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence counts that out from his pile of ones.

“I will have one,” he says. “Thank you.”

Mr. Graves smirks again, but takes the money from Credence’s hand.

“You can pick it up at the bar,” he says. “I’m not actually a server.”

Credence feels suddenly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Mr. Graves’ broad back.

Mr. Graves wears a tie too, but he couldn’t look more different from Credence. He looks like what Credence wishes he could look like. He has the sleeves of his bright white shirt rolled up to his elbows with forearms that are all muscle and dark hair. His shirt fits like it’s tailored to him, and Credence realize it probably is. As, likely, are his pants and the vest — waistcoat? — he wears.

Most of Credence’s clothes came from charity, the things he could find after months of Mary Lou’s complaints that he was taller every time she turned around.

“I can’t afford to feed you and clothe you at this rate,” he hears her saying in his head as he counts out forty seven one dollar bills. That came from the strange men all around him. He looks around, but they’re mostly watching the dancer on stage or each other.

Credence moves to the bar without catching anyone’s eye.

Except Mr. Graves, who looks up just before Credence takes a seat on a barstool.

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Mr. Graves says, setting a glass full of ice and soda and alcohol in front of Credence. “I served you a drink, any confusion on your part is my own fault.”

Credence doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just says, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” Mr. Graves says.

As he speaks, Mr. Graves turns a lemon rind to ribbons with a sharp knife in his hand. He tops a drink in a martini glass — Credence isn’t completely ignorant — and hands it off to one of the dancers who has a tray full of other drinks.

“Thanks, babe,” the dancer says, and Mr. Graves smiles slightly without looking up.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Mr. Graves says, then, looking up at Credence.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says. “I still remember my first visit to a strip club, I was about seventeen but my ID said I was twenty one, of course.”

Credence inhales sharply.

“I’m not lying about my age,” he says.

“I didn’t say you were,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m just telling you that I did, once. But I still had a good time. It wasn’t like this, it was all women.”

“I don’t think I’d enjoy that much,” Credence admits.

“That’s fair,” Mr. Graves says. “I don’t think I’d enjoy it nearly as much now as I did then.”

Credence sips his drink while Mr. Graves watches him.

“A round of Long Islands and they want the bottle of tequila you use to make it,” a dancer says. The man is dripping sweat and, for a moment, looks simply exhausted.

“I’m making it with the house bottle,” Mr. Graves says. “But put the Patron Silver on their tab.”

He mixes six drinks at once, a line of tall glasses in front of him. Credence watches as he sips his own drink. It doesn’t taste as sweet, but it still burns cold at the back of his tongue.

When he finishes, he takes a squat glass bottle off the shelf behind him and opens it.

“I don’t imagine you’ve ever had tequila before,” Mr. Graves says. “Have you?”

“No,” Credence says.

The man takes out three shot glasses and lines them up, pouring alcohol from the freshly-uncorked bottle into each.

“Would you like to?” Mr. Graves asks him.

Credence looks at the line of shots and then at Mr. Graves.

“Yes,” he says, though he’s uncertain. He guesses that he’s already intoxicated, and his third drink won’t help him any. A glass, even a small one, of nothing but alcohol seems like it could be trouble. He will still have to go back to his family after this.

“Give me your hand,” Mr. Graves says, and this is easier to agree to. Credence holds his left hand out without thinking.

Mr. Graves’ hand feels firm and warm against his.

He pulls Credence’s hand toward him, and Credence starts to pull it back. Despite how good it feels, even alcohol can’t keep Credence from thinking about how his hands must look up close.

Mr. Graves lets go of his hand, which Credence almost doesn’t expect.

“I apologize,” he says. “I should have been more specific. May I kiss your hand, Credence?”

“What?” Credence says, his thoughts coming right out his mouth.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Mr. Graves says. “This is a time-honored method for drinking tequila.”

The dancer who requested the six drinks and the bottle of tequila appears then, interrupting Mr. Graves’ explanation. Credence sits there in silence, contemplating the idea of having his hand kissed by Mr. Graves. It makes his face feel warm.

“Now, as I was saying,” Mr. Graves says to him, when the other drinks have disappeared. “A time-honored method. Please observe.”

He looks Credence in the eye as he raises the back of his own hand to his mouth. Credence sees the flash of his tongue between his lips for a moment and feels dizzy.

“Now,” Mr. Graves says, “salt.”

He takes a pinch of it and puts that over the spot where he just kissed his hand.

“And lime,” Mr. Graves says, taking a few slices of fruit out of a slick plastic container with a pair of tongs.

In quick succession, Mr. Graves licks the salt off the back of his hand, picks up the shot of tequila, downs it in one smooth motion, and puts a slice of lime between his teeth.

He makes it all seem like nothing, but Credence leans forward on the bar and feels his mouth hanging open.

“Would you like to try?” Mr. Graves asks him.

Credence holds his hand out, feeling as though he’s in a trance. Mr. Graves looks him in the eye now as he takes Credence’s hand in his. He draws Credence’s knuckles up to his mouth and kisses him wetly. Credence feels the heat of his tongue against skin he was sure had lost all sensation years ago.

His heart pounds as Mr. Graves sprinkles salt on his skin.

Credence’s hand shakes when he pulls it back to himself, his elbow and wrist bent at sharp angles. He looks down, not wanting to know if Mr. Graves watches him as he licks the salt off his hand. Some of the tequila splashes out of the tiny glass when Credence picks it up. The rest, he tries to swallow. It tastes horrible and he feels himself gagging.

When he opens his eyes, Mr. Graves is holding a piece of lime out between two fingers and Credence doesn’t think, he just leans forward. He takes the lime from Mr. Graves’ hand with his teeth. It’s a sharp relief, sour enough to wash away the awful taste of the alcohol.

Credence pulls away as soon as he realizes he has Mr. Graves’ fingertips against his lips.

“You don’t eat the lime,” Mr. Graves says. He’s smirking as Credence spits it out.

“That was awful,” Credence says.

“But now you’ve had the experience,” Mr. Graves says.

“I think I prefer sweet drinks,” Credence says.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mr. Graves says, still smirking at him.

Credence washes the rest of the taste out of his mouth with his rum and coke, now watered down by melted ice.

“Who is the third shot for?” he asks, glaring at it.

“Your friend Apollo,” Mr. Graves says.

It’s not totally obvious how much of the time Mr. Graves has spent looking at him until he looks away; then Credence feels bereft. But within a brief moment, Mr. Graves simply gestures out and beckons Apollo forward out of the crowd with the crook of two fingers.

“Yes?” Apollo asks. “Oh, hello Credence. I hope you’re not spending all your money at the bar.”

“He’s buying a dance from you,” Mr. Graves says. “And this shot.”

“For you to drink?” Apollo asks. “Or for me?”

Credence still regards the shot with heavy suspicion. “For you, if you want it. It’s awful.”

Apollo laughs, but he picks the shot up and toss it back like it’s nothing. No salt or lime or anything, as easy as if it were water.

“Oh yes, it’s quite awful,” he says, laughing.

“Now, do you want a dance?” he asks. “Don’t let Mr. Graves tell you who to spend your money on. He can be incredibly bossy, but you don’t work for him.”

“Pardon me,” Mr. Graves says.

“I don’t either,” Apollo says. “What am I again? An independent contractor?”

Apollo grins at Mr. Graves and Credence just stares between them. They’re both so handsome, but put together differently. First of all, there’s hardly a hair on Apollo’s body and Credence has seen nearly all of it now. He can’t really imagine that Mr. Graves looks that way under his clothes. He’s not as tall as Apollo, but he has broader shoulders and a thicker waist. Everything about him seems more substantial, from the grey hair at his temples to the width of his hands.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I think I’d like a dance.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” Apollo says. “Would you be so kind as to follow me, then?”

Credence looks at his drink, half-finished and half-melted.

“Can I take this with me?” he asks.

“Of course!” Apollo says, brightly.

Sliding off the barstool, Credence finds his feet surprisingly steady beneath him. He follows Apollo through the blue lights of the club and down a hallway that he could have mistaken for a door. This opens into a dark room full of intimately small alcoves, only big enough for a comfortable seat and one man. Somehow, both Credence and Apollo manage to fit into one.

“Do you mind if I touch you?” Apollo asks, opening his fly and stripping his pants off in one very smooth motion.

“I don’t know,” Credence says, holding his drink close to his chest and sipping from it.

“Well, I’m just going to have a seat, then,” Apollo says.

He sits against Credence as though he were the chair, his naked back pressing against Credence’s arms and his drink. He leans back until his cheek nearly touches Credence’s face.

It’s very warm, Credence thinks, and he can smell Apollo’s sweat.

“I’m all yours for the next five songs,” he says. “That’s only about ten minutes, at best.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

He feels frozen and is scared to even breathe with Apollo’s body pressed so closely to his.

“Now, usually,” Apollo says. “I tell our clients not to touch me, unless they’re women, but I think you and I have already crossed that line, haven’t we, Credence? So, feel free.”

Credence sips his drink so he’ll have something to swallow.

It’s terribly awkward to hold his drink this way with Apollo against him, but he’s terrified by the thought of Apollo’s naked back pressed against him.

Terrified, but quick to overcome that feeling with another swallow of his drink and the slow movement of Apollo’s hips against his lap.

Credence unfolds his arms, holding his drink in his right hand. Apollo falls back against him fully, tipping his head back against Credence’s shoulder. Credence could press his face against Apollo’s throat if he wanted.

“Is your name really Apollo?” he asks instead.

Apollo starts to laugh, which Credence can feel against his whole body.

“No, it’s actually much worse,” he says. “Is your name really Credence?”

“Yes,” he says. “Why would I lie about that?”

“It’s just a very unusual name,” Apollo says. “Though it’s better than Artemis.”

“Artemis?” Credence asks.

“My middle name,” Apollo says. “Really! My mother liked it, even though it’s a goddess’ name.”

It’s somehow not surprising to Credence that the man moving against him so sexually, letting him get aroused by his body for a handful of dollar bills, is also a heathen.

“Artemis is Apollo’s sister,” he explains, “so it was the obvious choice. My real name is not particularly erotic, unless you’re very into physics.”

“What?” Credence asks.

“Don’t you dare call me this,” Apollo says.

Then he presses his mouth against Credence’s ear and whispers. “Newton, but not even Tina calls me that.”

Credence feels himself shaking when Apollo, or whatever his name is, pulls away.

“Is she your,” Credence doesn’t know what word he wants, exactly, so he says, “lover?”

Apollo laughs. “Yes.”

“And it doesn’t bother her that you and I…” Credence trails off. “That you?”

He doesn’t have the words and he feels muted by alcohol and arousal. His mind feels like it’s swimming in warm water, or maybe only floating.

“No,” Apollo says. “If she minded, I doubt she would have given you money to pass along to me. Would she?”

“Oh,” Credence says, because of course. It’s baffling, but perhaps it should have been obvious.

“Damn,” Apollo says, suddenly enough to startle Credence.

“Sorry,” he adds when Credence jumps. “It’s just we’re nearly out of time and I feel I haven’t really given you the best experience for your first lap dance.”

Apollo turns his head and presses his mouth to the corner of Credence’s jaw, a sudden hot touch that makes Credence jerk away from him.

“Was that too much?” Apollo asks immediately.

“No!” Credence says. “I’m sorry!”

“Oh, this is turning into a right pickle, isn’t it?” Apollo says.

“I like your accent,” Credence says. “And I liked the kiss and I like you. You’re very beautiful and naked.”

“Well,” Apollo says, grinning. “That’s my job. Or, it’s one of my jobs anyway.”

Apollo stands up slowly and stretches so that Credence can see his back muscles and the curve of his ass.

“I’m not the best at dances, I know,” Apollo says. “I just don’t have the, what would you say? People skills.”

“I enjoyed that,” Credence says, and Apollo surely knows that. He can’t have missed how hard Credence is, not with how they were pressed together.

“Well, thank you,” Apollo says.

Apollo stands with his hands on his hips for a long moment, looking down at Credence, while Credence tries to make out his freckles in the dim light.

“It still costs money and not compliments,” he says, after a moment.

Credence shoves his hand in his pocket and counts out, well, more than twenty five dollars probably. Embarrassed, he hands it over to Apollo without meeting his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, softly.

“It’s not a problem, Credence,” Apollo says. “Do you need a moment?”

Credence doesn’t think he could live with himself if he masturbated in this dark corner, alone. It’s still humiliating to go out there in the state he’s in. But he can tolerate it.

“No,” he says. “I’m fine.”

When Apollo turns his back, Credence takes a moment to put his hand beneath the waist of his pants. He reaches into his underwear as quickly and briefly as he can, touching himself only enough to tuck his erection under the pressure of his belt. Even that feels like torture, nothing like the insistent grind of Apollo’s body.

He stands up and slips back out of the dark hallway, leaving his glass behind out of distraction and not carelessness. He doesn’t notice until he’s nearly to the bar again, meaning to return it. Then he just stands there and looks around. Giving up, he goes to the bar anyway, in hopes of seeing Mr. Graves.

Instead, there’s the woman from the front with her blonde hair.

“What can I get you?” she asks, and Credence realizes that she has a Southern accent, but it never occurred to him that Mr. Graves did.

“Is Mr. Graves here?” he asks.

“He’s taking a break at the moment,” the woman says. “I promise I’m just as capable at mixing drinks without a penis.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Credence says, embarrassed and suddenly defensive. “I think I’ve had enough to drink, thank you. Good night, ma’am.”

She smirks at him before he turns away, and it makes him angry. He stomps away to his seat and tries to calm himself. Why did he even bother to go to the bar at all?

He makes it within a foot of the seat he was in before when he looks up from his own shoes. Mr. Graves sits there with one foot up on his knee. He turns and looks at Credence with a questioning tilt to his eyebrows.

“Hello Credence,” he says. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“You’re in my seat,” Credence says.

“Oh,” Mr. Graves says. He pauses to take a swig from a plastic bottle of water.

“I must apologize, Credence, I didn’t realize,” he says.

He stands up then and gestures to the empty chair with the sweep of his hand. “It’s my club, yes, but clearly this is your seat tonight.”

Credence glares at him. He knows when he’s being mocked.

He checks his phone and sees it’s just short of eleven. He has only an hour left.

“Here,” Mr. Graves says, offering him an unopened plastic bottle of water.

“Thank you,” Credence says, as he takes it.

He doesn’t even know how thirsty he is until he takes his first swallow, and then suddenly the whole bottle is empty in a few seconds.

“Do you need another?” Mr. Graves asks.

“I’m fine,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves leans over then and braces his hand on the back of the chair Credence sits in.

“I hope you’re having an enjoyable night,” he says.

Credence looks at him, slightly unnerved by how close Mr. Graves’ hand rests to his shoulder or the back of his neck. He squeezes the empty water bottle in his left hand and feels the plastic crunch.

“Yes,” he says.

“You didn’t drive yourself here, did you?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No,” Credence says.

“And you have a way to get home safely?” he asks.

Credence feels his brow drawing together not in a glare, but simple confusion.

“Yes,” he says, without offering any details.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says. He taps his hand against the back of the chair and then stands up straight.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he says, and Credence knows that means he’s going to leave.

“Wait,” Credence says, and he drops the plastic bottle so he can grab onto Mr. Graves’ wrist.

He realizes his mistake and tries to pick up the bottle from the floor with his right hand, but only manages to make himself dizzy.

“Yes?” Mr. Graves says, raising an eyebrow at Credence. He doesn’t pull his arm away, though he likely could.

“Where are you from?” Credence asks. “Is it New York?”

“No,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence feels oddly sad about it.

“But I did live there for a few years,” he adds. “Until I simply couldn’t afford it.”

“Oh,” Credence says. He doesn’t know what else to say to that, but he doesn’t want to let go of Mr. Graves. He only has an hour left and then this will all be over.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Graves asks him.

Credence stares at his hand on Mr. Graves forearm.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“May I have my hand back now?” Mr. Graves asks. “Or is that yours as well?”

He tightens his hold reflexively, irritated at being teased again.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s mine now.”

That makes Mr. Graves laugh, even though Credence isn’t sure he meant it as a joke.

“Well, I was going to use my time to check on you anyway,” he says. “I suppose you can keep my hand for the time being.”

“Thank you,” Credence says, adjusting his grip slightly when Mr. Graves steps closer.

“Did you enjoy the dance?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence swallows and pulls his knees closer together. “Yes, I think so.”

His cheeks feel sort of numb, but the back of his neck prickles with sweat.

“And did it fulfill all your fantasies?” Mr. Graves asks, with the corner of his mouth tilting up.

“No,” Credence says, before he can stop himself.

“Really?” Mr. Graves asks.

“We talked,” Credence says. “Mostly about Apollo.”

“That’s all?” Mr. Graves asks. His smile falls away and there are lines in his forehead that make Credence feel compelled to say more.

“No,” he says. “He was in my lap the whole time and I… enjoyed that.”

He swallows again and hopes that the lights in this particular corner are too dim for Mr. Graves to be able to see anything. Especially with the way Mr. Graves nearly frowns, Credence feels he can’t even move. His dick throbs at the thought of Mr. Graves noticing how hard he is. Credence imagines him scowling harder and pulling away. But he also imagines Mr. Graves smiling at him and reaching down to put his free hand between Credence’s legs.

Either thing would likely make his heart simply stop.

“As long as you enjoyed it,” Mr. Graves says. “But it sounds to me as though you hardly got your money’s worth.”

“No!” Credence protests, squeezing Mr. Graves’ arm. “I did.”

Just the way Mr. Graves looks at him, displeased and very focused, makes Credence feel queasy. He worries that Mr. Graves thinks he’s lying to him, that being drunk has made him obvious. It isn’t exactly a lie; if anything Credence thinks he enjoyed it more than he should have.

“I would enjoy it more if it was you, maybe,” he says, which is honest but inappropriate.

Mr. Graves raises his eyebrows.

“I know you said,” Credence starts. “That you don’t do that. And I don’t have a lot of money, I know. Maybe I could — I could do it for you? But in private.”

Once he’s said all of that, Credence feels dizzy with something that isn’t just alcohol. Or maybe it is? But he was always taught that alcohol lead to impotence in men and deformity in women, and this is almost the opposite of impotence. But, again, Credence’s desires are so unnatural that perhaps the drinks have made that stronger.

He lets go of Mr. Graves’ arm.

“I think you’re rather drunk, Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

All of his embarrassment suddenly goes up in angry flames.

“And whose fault is that?” he asks. “I didn’t ask you for any alcohol, and you’ve been plying me with drinks all night.”

“That’s fair,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence blinks slowly and then frowns. He wasn’t supposed to just concede to Credence’s accusation. What sort of man does that?

“A beautiful young man, trying to be well dressed, walks into my club by himself,” Mr. Graves begins, “it’s in my business interests to make sure he has a good time.”

“I don’t have any money,” Credence says, still simmering with anger and lust and drunkenness. He’s absolutely drowning in his own wickedness.

“It’s not about money,” Mr. Graves replies. “It’s about image.”

Credence can only scowl. That’s almost worse than this idea Mr. Graves presents of Credence as beautiful or well dressed. He knows it’s a lie, but he wants to believe it.

“And, perhaps,” he adds, “it was a little bit personal.”

Credence scowls harder, until he can barely see for squinting.

“What does that even mean?” he asks. “How is it personal for you to get me drunk?”

Mr. Graves looks him right in the eye and rolls his shoulders.

“So you’re from out of town,” he says, which is not an answer at all. “And you’ll only be here for a short period of time. And you have someone to drive you back to your, what, are you staying in a hotel alone or with a church group?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Credence asks. He’s not so stupid as to give this stranger more information about him, no matter how drunk he might be or how handsome Mr. Graves’ face is.

“If you decide I’ve ruined your life or your virtue or whatever it is, I doubt you’ll come all the way back to Atlanta to make a fuss about it,” Mr. Graves says as though that means anything to Credence.

“What are you talking about?” Credence asks.

When Mr. Graves reaches for his arm, Credence pulls it away. His whole body lilts to one side in his seat.

“You want a dance from me,” Mr. Graves says.

“Yes,” Credence says. “But you said —”

“Forget that,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence shuts his mouth.

“I’m offering you a dance,” Mr. Graves says. “No money exchanged, only a solemn promise from both of us that we know it’s a bad idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea, Mr. Graves,” he says, and he means it. But when Mr. Graves extends his hand, Credence feels something akin to victory.

He should have known, really, that nothing is achieved by simply asking for it. There are always rules and ways to go about things — the right way, usually, and then the way that Credence finds himself doing things. This world he’s found himself in with Mr. Graves is not so different from the rest of his life.

But he enjoys it more, even putting his hand in Mr. Graves’ hand feels pleasurable.

Mr. Graves helps him to his feet, which he doesn’t really need.

With a hand against Credence’s back, Mr. Graves leads him in a different direction than Apollo had. Credence looks over and then stumbles because he’s not watching his feet.

“I regret getting you quite this drunk,” Mr. Graves says. “That was a mistake.”

“I don’t regret it,” Credence says, turning to look at him.

“You will,” Mr. Graves tells him.

“Shouldn’t we be going over there?” Credence asks, trying to point to his right.

“No,” Mr. Graves says. “That’s hardly private at all, really.”

It had felt quite private to Credence, dark and distant enough from the pounding music that everything felt far away.

Instead, Mr. Graves leads him to a hall of doors. Most are closed, but Mr. Graves pulls him through the first one that’s open. Blue and white lights come on as soon as Mr. Graves shuts the door behind them.

Credence looks around and finds the small space artificially expanded by mirrored walls. Everywhere he turns he sees a hundred million visions of himself standing with Mr. Graves at his back.

“Have a seat,” he’s told, and three of the walls are lined by soft seating, like a continuous sofa or one enormous chair.

“Anywhere?” he asks.

“You can lie down if you want to,” Mr. Graves says, waving his hand. Credence watches a hundred reflections of Mr. Graves all wave their hands as well.

“I don’t do this professionally anymore, but I do know what I’m doing.”

Credence doesn’t lie down, though it’s tempting when he discovers how soft the seating is. He sits so that he faces Mr. Graves and the door. It’s the only thing that isn’t mirrored, and he would rather not have to look at himself.

The fabric of the upholstery probably isn’t velvet, but Credence doesn’t know the difference. It’s soft to the touch and smooth when he moves his hand along the pattern of it. It isn’t black, but in this light the fabric could be white and it would still look blue.

He’s so distracted that Mr. Graves’ knee meeting the edge of the cushion surprises him.

Credence looks up and Mr. Graves is an inch from the end of his nose

Pressing back against the seat, Credence feels the back of his skull hit the mirror behind him. He winces at how hard he hit the wall.

“Maybe you should lie down, actually,” Mr. Graves says. He reaches up and cups the curve of Credence’s head. His hand warms Credence’s scalp as he moves his fingers through the short hair at the back.

“I’d rather not,” Credence says.

“Well, then I’ll try not to startle you again,” Mr. Graves tells him.

He’s close enough that Credence can see the way the skin at the corners of his eyes creases more on one side when he smirks.

“To that end,” he continues, glancing down at something even though the only thing in front of him is Credence’s face, “I’d prefer you keep your hands to yourself, but only so I don’t get too distracted.”

Credence nods.

“And may I touch you?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence nods harder.

“Does full nudity bother you?” Mr. Graves asks. “It doesn’t seem to.”

“I like it,” Credence says, and then shuts his eyes in disbelief at himself.

“That’s fine,” Mr. Graves says. “Obviously, I do too, or I wouldn’t own a strip club.”

Mr. Graves has a knee on either side of Credence’s thighs now as he sits up a little straighter and looks down his nose at Credence in a way that makes him shrink back.

“This outfit is hardly meant for this kind of thing,” he says, but when he tugs on the knot of his tie it comes loose so easily that Credence can only stare.

He slides the length of fabric from his collar, and Credence can see that the two little pins on each side of his collar are connected by a metal chain.

Rather than toss it away, Mr. Graves takes his tie in both hands and loops it around Credence’s neck. He feels the fabric brush against his hair and then Mr. Graves pulls it up against the shaved edge of his hair so that silk rubs against Credence’s earlobes. He shivers.

Then Mr. Graves pulls him forward, and Credence goes with the slightest pressure.

Mr. Graves stops when Credence’s nose almost touches that chain. The tie falls away and Credence sinks back. He stares up at Mr. Graves and feels his pulse pounding in his ears.

“These, for instance,” Mr. Graves says, as he moves his hands to the pins. “Completely inconvenient.”

He still takes them off his collar quickly and tucks them into the pocket of his vest. That’s what he unbuttons next; only five black buttons against black fabric, but it feels like a hundred. Credence watches him open it from the bottom up and pull it off his shoulders with a flourish. He sweeps it off onto the seat beside Credence.

Then Mr. Graves starts on the buttons his shirt.

Credence’s eyes follow his hands, watching Mr. Graves’ skin appear between the slowly opening halves of his shirt. When he reaches his belt, he opens it and pulls it free as smoothly as he did his tie.

Thankfully, he doesn’t use it the way he had the tie. He simply drops it to the floor and tugs the ends of his shirt from his waistband.

With Mr. Graves this close, it’s impossible for Credence not to stare. It’s as though he hasn’t spent the last few hours looking at men’s bodies, as though Mr. Graves’ skin is something totally new and unexpected. His stomach feels turned inside out and he finds he has to swallow again or he’ll choke on his own spit.

If only Mr. Graves wasn’t so close, Credence thinks, then he’d be able to see _more_ of him. And, just like that, Mr. Graves leans back until he’s practically sitting on Credence’s knees. It’s as though Credence willed him to move.

“Now Credence,” Mr. Graves says, “however you feel right now, I want you to enjoy this.”

Credence blinks and his eyes itch from not having blinked in a long moment. He rubs his eye with the knuckles of his left hand.

“Right now, there’s nothing outside this room,” Mr. Graves says. “There’s only you —”

He reaches out and taps Credence right in the center of his chest. Then he takes Credence’s tie in his hand and tugs on it just slightly, with his thumb against the knot.

“— and me, Credence, and I can be a very jealous man. I don’t want you thinking about anything but me and you.”

Mr. Graves’ knuckles brush against Credence’s throat above his collar and he feels himself shiver. His breath comes out of him shaking.

“And after tonight,” Mr. Graves says, tracing the edge of Credence’s jaw with the side of his finger, “you’re not going to worry about anything that you did or felt. You’re going to remember that I seduced you, Credence, so I’m the bad one here.”

Credence’s face reacts without meaning to. It must because Mr. Graves says, “No, don’t look at me like that.”

“But you’re —” he starts to say, and the words get lost. Credence doesn’t even know what he might have said.

Mr. Graves puts his finger against Credence’s lips.

Then he leans in close enough that Credence is sure Mr. Graves’ mouth is on the other side side of his finger. The ends of their noses touch lightly.

“Shh,” he says. “You’re a total innocent in this.”

Mr. Graves pulls away again and Credence finds himself trying to follow. He misses the touch against his mouth.

“Have you ever been kissed by a man before, Credence?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No, sir,” Credence says, too overwhelmed to wonder if he should have lied.

Mr. Graves smiles at him a little, but he reaches up and holds Credence’s chin, which is what really matters. Credence tilts his chin up into the touch.

“I’m going to kiss you, then,” he says.

All Credence can say is, “Yes, sir, alright.”

And Mr. Graves lets him say all that, lets him sit there and wait until Credence wonders if he has to ask for it. Then Mr. Graves leans in, close enough for the ends of their noses to touch again. He’s so close that Credence feels himself going cross-eyed trying to look at him. Mr. Graves’ breath brushes over his lips. His heart pounds.

His lips feel very dry, and that would be terrible to kiss, he thinks, so he licks them.

Mr. Graves’ hand moves from his chin to his jaw to the side of his neck. His thumb fits right under Credence’s ear.

The touch of his hand seems hot against Credence’s skin, but it doesn’t compare to the heat of Mr. Graves’ lips against his.

Nothing could compare to that.

Credence jerks back slightly as though it burns him, but Mr. Graves curls his fingers around the back of his neck and holds him.

He presses his mouth harder against Credence’s lips. His tongue runs over Credence’s closed mouth so he opens it. He lets Mr. Graves taste him. Oh, it feels so good that Credence’s eyes flinch shut and he jerks his hips.

Mr. Graves presses closer to him. His weight comes down heavy on Credence’s thighs so he can’t move as much. With the way Mr. Graves’ tongue feels in his mouth, that’s almost torture. But then Mr. Graves thrusts his hips against Credence’s belly.

He moves against Credence in this smooth, sinuous way. Credence can only see the dark behind his eyelids, and he can’t even imagine what Mr. Graves is doing to him. But he knows it’s lewd, probably even obscene. Credence’s erection throbs with every move.

The kiss doesn’t end until Mr. Graves pulls away. Credence finds himself with his mouth hanging open and his lips wet.

He tries to catch his breath with shallow panting.

“Was that good for you?” Mr. Graves asks.

Still breathing hard, Credence only nods his head like an idiot.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says, and he shrugs his shirt off of his shoulders.

The hair on his chest is short, like it’s just growing in, and Credence wants to run his hands across it. But he’s got to keep his hands to himself. Still, he lets his eyes go over every inch of Mr. Graves. He’s got broad shoulders and a broad chest, with muscles that are a smooth suggestion rather than hard, exaggerated lines. Credence wants to touch him so badly, more than he thinks he’s ever wanted to touch another person. He looks so real and yet so perfect.

He straightens out his rolled up sleeves only after he’s taken his shirt off and Credence watches the movement of his arms and chest with rapt attention.

“Now the next bit will be even trickier,” Mr. Graves says. “I wasn’t really thinking of how easily I could get out of my clothes when I got dressed this evening. A regrettable oversight on my part.”

When his weight comes off Credence’s legs, it’s almost a disappointment. But up on his knees, Credence has such a good view of Mr. Graves’ body. He looks him up and down without even moving his head.

Mr. Graves shifts his weight to one side and puts his foot up on the cushion beside Credence’s left leg.

Credence can’t help but turn and look, but he’s no sooner looked down than Mr. Graves picks his foot up again and sets the heel of his shoe down hard on the back of the seat. Credence jumps slightly, flinching away from the thud beside his shoulder.

He has a great view of Mr. Graves’ inseam.

Mr. Graves leans over him slightly to unlace his shoe, and Credence thinks that if he only leaned forward a bit he could put his face between Mr. Graves’ legs. He could easily duck under Mr. Graves’ arm and maybe Mr. Graves would hold the back of his head again to encourage him. Really, it feels like anything could happen.

“Tell me, Credence,” Mr. Graves says, bringing his leg down and tugging off his shoe in one motion that leaves Credence feeling almost disappointed. “What do you fantasize about?”

Credence looks up at him and doesn't even open his mouth.

“Nothing?” Mr. Graves says. He raises an eyebrow at Credence.

At least this time he's looking when Mr. Graves picks up his other foot. He expects the movement and the sound of his heel against the space beside his shoulder.

“You're really so pure-minded a Christian that you don't think about sex?” Mr. Graves asks him. “I'm astonished, really. Usually this place fills up when there's a convention in town — Baptists, Catholics, Republicans. But they're not like you.”

Mr. Graves kneels over him with both his shoes off and cups his hand against Credence’s cheek.

“You seem shy, but I don't think you are, Credence,” he says. “I wanted you on stage just because — well, look at you, you’re young and tall and beautiful. God’s sake, you’re even wearing a tie. No one your age wears a tie to a strip club unless he’s looking to take it off.”

There’s layers of meaning here that Credence knows he’s missing. He’s barely paying attention, focused more on the feeling of Mr. Graves’ hand on his face and the way Mr. Graves’ mouth moves when he speaks.

“I didn’t expect you to actually do much,” Mr. Graves says. “But you went and surprised me. I didn’t even know I could be surprised anymore in this business — certainly not pleasantly so.”

“I surprised you?” Credence asks. “Pleasantly?”

“Oh yes,” Mr. Graves says.

He moves his hand from Credence’s face down to his neck and leans down toward him.

“Now, Credence, tell me what I can do for you,” Mr. Graves says.

His heart pounds in his chest. It's not that he doesn't have things he wants, but so many desires crowd Credence’s mind that he's struck dumb.

He wants to touch and be touched. He wants to taste and be tasted. He wants to be fucked — just to know if it's as horrible and wonderful as he imagines it could be — but that's certainly too much to ask. He'd never be able to bring himself to ask anyway.

“Can I,” he starts.

Then he corrects himself, “May I take my shirt off too?”

Mr. Graves’ fingers squeeze the back of his neck.

“That’s a brilliant idea, actually,” Mr. Graves says.

Then Mr. Graves lets him go and steps backwards off his lap.

“This bit is never as exciting as you think it will be,” he says, and his hands go to the fly of his pants.

Credence freezes. He might have lurched forward after Mr. Graves or started to take off his jacket, but now he doesn’t dare move.

Mr. Graves opens his fly without making a show of it, but Credence still can’t look away. His eyes follows Mr. Graves hands as he keeps hold of the waistband of his pants and lets them only fall as far as his knees before he steps out of them. Credence watches his shoulders as closely as he does his thighs.

Credence couldn’t have imagined it, but Mr. Graves looks somehow even better standing in his underwear and socks and folding his pants into quarters.

Even his underwear and socks are the finest Credence has ever seen in person. There’s a pattern in gold on black along the waistband of Mr. Graves’ underwear, which sits just below his hipbones. The most defined muscles are there on his stomach just above his hips, and Credence wants to run his hands along the lines of them.

If he could, he would peel Mr. Graves’ black underwear off his body with his own hands. It fits so tightly to his legs that Credence would have to do just that — peel. But he would be very gentle about it.

“Well,” Mr. Graves says, “I can’t think of any sexy way to take off my socks, so why don’t you distract yourself by taking your jacket off for me?”

Credence has never taken his jacket off so fast in his life. He probably pops a seam in the lining, which has already torn more than once before. When he tries to undo his tie without looking away from Mr. Graves, however, the knot catches and goes tight. Frustrated, Credence just yanks it off over his head.

“You should respect your clothes a little more, Credence,” Mr. Graves admonishes.

“Why?” Credence asks, because that’s ridiculous from the mouth of someone who dresses so well. Credence wears mostly secondhand clothes and whatever’s cheapest. When he wears holes in things, he’s always the one to fix them himself.

“At least don’t ruin your tie for my sake,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence finds that ridiculous. But also, he only packed one tie, so he picks it up and clumsily tries to undo the knot with hands that won’t quite do what he wants them to.

He’s afraid, if he spends too much time on this, he’ll miss something more important.

“Here,” Mr. Graves says. “Let me.”

He’s close enough that Credence could touch him, but their hands only brush when Mr. Graves takes his tie from him. Of course, he gets it loose in two quick motions. Credence feels completely ridiculous. Embarrassment burns on his face, but also in the pit of his stomach.

Still glaring at his tie, Credence doesn’t look up until Mr. Graves puts both hands on his collar. Then, he startles.

“May I?” Mr. Graves asks. “Or would you rather keep it on?”

Reaching up, he puts his left hand over Mr. Graves’ right — even though he’s supposed to keep his hands to himself.

“Please,” he says.

There’s so much to see, but as Mr. Graves slides gracefully back onto Credence’s lap he can’t look away from his face.

“I’ve always enjoyed unwrapping gifts more than actually receiving them,” Mr. Graves says, as he opens the first button of Credence’s collar.

“I’m a gift?” Credence asks.

“Of course you are,” Mr. Graves says, smiling a bit. “Look at you.”

He knows he can’t trust that, but it makes him feel dizzy with delight all the same.

Mr. Graves doesn’t simply unbutton Credence’s shirt, he slips his hands in against Credence’s skin as he goes. His touch is light and warm, just enough to make Credence breathing a little more labored. He arches his back slightly when Mr. Graves runs his fingers along the edge of his ribs. His breath comes out of his mouth in a shudder.

“May I,” Credence starts. He stops for a breath when Mr. Graves puts his hands on each side of his waist.

“Touch you?” he asks, his voice breaking.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Graves says.

With only a little shiver of hesitation, Credence puts his hands on Mr. Graves hips. His thumbs fit right into that groove of muscle and bone exactly the way he had imagined, maybe better. He sighs.

“Were you holding back on that for long?” Mr. Graves asks.

“You said,” Credence says, “to keep my hands to myself.”

“That was while I was doing the whole striptease bit,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m obviously undressed now.”

He tugs Credence’s shirt free from his pants.

“And you’re nearly so,” Mr. Graves adds.

“You still have underwear on,” Credence says. “It’s nice underwear.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says. “Do you want me to take it off? That part might be disappointing, not everyone wants to see everything.”

“I do,” Credence says, perhaps more forcefully than is necessary.

Mr. Graves pulls back slightly and laughs.

“Alright,” he says.

He sits up on his knees slightly, with enough space between them that Credence can watch him grope himself. He stares.

His hands are still on Mr. Graves’ hips. He could easily put his hands where Mr. Graves’ are.

Instead, he pulls his hands away and digs his blunt nails into the upholstery of the seat beneath him. He wants to touch Mr. Graves and, just as badly, himself.

Mr. Graves tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and pulls it down slowly. Credence expects to see either hair thicker than what’s on Mr. Graves forearms and legs — or none at all, like in pornography. He doesn’t expect the very close shorn hairs he sees, but he also wants to run his hand, or maybe his mouth, against Mr. Graves’ pelvis to feel the texture.

Mr. Graves pushes his underwear down far enough for Credence to see the base of his cock, where the skin is suddenly smooth. He inhales sharply at the sight.

“You’re just pure as the driven snow, aren’t you?” Mr. Graves says. He stays exactly as he is and Credence feels simply tormented.

“No, I'm not,” Credence says.

“Then I'm flattered,” Mr. Graves says.

He pushes the elastic down just another inch more.

“I'm not sure the last time I've ever had someone in such suspense to see my dick,” he says. “Maybe it's never happened. I'm impressed by your focus.”

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“You're really something else, Credence,” he says.

That could be an insult, but then Mr. Graves adds: “I'd hate for you to go unrewarded.”

He finally pushes the elastic all the way down to his mid-thigh. His cock springs up straight — hard, but maybe too heavy to stand any higher. The very end is flushed and partly covered by a bit of skin. Credence has never seen that in real life, certainly not up close.

“Oh,” he says.

It looks big, but maybe isn't any bigger than his own. Still, it _looks_ big.

“It's perfect,” he says, and Mr. Graves laughs.

The sound startles Credence enough that he looks up and sees Mr. Graves actually smiling. Credence can see all his teeth and they're perfect too, of course.

“You're a delight,” Mr. Graves says.

When Credence looks down again, Mr. Graves is slipping the elastic down over one knee. Then he does the other knee. And then, he's completely naked in Credence’s lap.

“I think,” Mr. Graves says, “there's a chance that I really am seducing you. You should know, if you go to any other strip clubs in the future, this isn't how it usually goes at all.”

“I'd like to be seduced by you,” Credence says. “I think.”

He’s still looking down when Mr. Graves wraps a hand around his cock. When he strokes himself, the skin pulls back and exposes the whole flushed head. Credence has the strongest urge to put it in his mouth.

“Do you want to touch me?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says, wishing there was a stronger word for yes.

“Then, please, go ahead,” Mr. Graves says. “Now’s not really the time to hold yourself back.”

Mr. Graves takes his hand away, and Credence reaches up. He puts one hand on Mr. Graves’ hip and the other against his pelvis. His skin is so warm, Credence thinks, and the short-clipped hair feels as prickly as stubble when he rubs his hand against it. He can’t stop thinking about how he wants to put his face, his mouth where his hands are. Credence swallows before he curls his thumb and forefinger around the very base of Mr. Graves’ dick. It’s hot to the touch.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He only touches himself in bathroom, usually in the shower, and tries to be as quick as possible about it. Now, he doesn’t want to rush anything, but he’s not sure how.

He strokes his thumb along the underside twice before he finally wraps his hand around it. He keeps his touch light, at least until he gets closer to the end, then he squeezes his fist because he knows that will feel good.

Mr. Graves moves his hips forward into the motion of Credence’s hand, and it feels like a revelation.

“Am I doing this right?” he asks.

“I don’t think there’s a wrong way you could be doing it,” Mr. Graves says.  

Credence moves his hand just the way that makes Mr. Graves thrust forward into his fist. He watches the muscles in Mr. Graves’ legs when he moves, and stares at his own hand feeling as though it couldn’t possibly belong to him.

He tenses when Mr. Graves puts his hands on Credence’s shoulders. But his hands move down Credence’s chest and under his shirt. He touches Credence’s chest with both hands; his skin prickles with sensation wherever he’s touched. Mr. Graves’ thumb circles his nipple until it comes to a little point, a shock of pleasure.

No matter how he breathes, Credence can’t seem to catch his breath while Mr. Graves is touching him. He breathes hard. Mr. Graves moves closer to him and his hips jerk forward toward him. He wants to press their bodies together so badly he could scream, but he’s very good at not making a sound.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Mr. Graves says, leaning in close. He kisses the corner of Credence’s jaw with an open mouth and Credence gasps.

“In fact, please don’t,” he says. “I want to give you what you want and I want to know how much you enjoy it.”

It scares him to think about what he wants, that he wants Mr. Graves’ cock in his mouth instead of his hands. Or for Mr. Graves to put him on his knees and fuck him bent over on the seat. If Mr. Graves would just touch him, that would be enough. He’s letting Credence touch him, and that’s enough.

Mr. Graves kisses the side of Credence’s neck, pushing his tongue and teeth against his skin. A small sound escapes out his open mouth and his cock aches so badly that he worries he could die from this.

“There it is,” Mr. Graves says, against his throat. Then he catches Credence skin between his teeth. Credence yelps. It’s not even pain, he doesn’t know what he feels. It’s so electric that he thinks maybe he could come just from Mr. Graves biting his neck.

His hand squeezes tight around Mr. Graves’ cock and the man groans against Credence’s skin.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Credence says.

“Oh no,” Mr. Graves says.

He puts a hand under Credence’s chin and moves his face until Credence has to look him in the eye. He’s been keeping his eyes closed, but now he stares into Mr. Graves’ dark eyes.

“No apologizing, I’ll have none of that,” Mr. Graves says.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, then cringes at himself.

His eyes are still squeezed shut when Mr. Graves kisses him. It’s not the blow he expects, and he easily melts into the soft touch of Mr. Graves’ mouth. Kissing feels so good, even though that makes no sense. No man should want another man’s tongue in his mouth like this, but Credence does. It makes his whole body feel lit up like fireworks and neon signs.

Mr. Graves presses close and then closer, pushing Credence back against the soft cushions. He can’t keep his hand on Mr. Graves’ cock any longer without hurting his wrist, so he lets go. Mr. Graves pushes his cock against Credence’s bare stomach and his whole body jerks. He makes a sound into Mr. Graves’ mouth, something embarrassing but thankfully muffled.

When Mr. Graves pulls away from the kiss, Credence whines like a dog. It’s humiliating.

“God,” Mr. Graves says.

Then, “Fuck, I want to make you come, Credence.”

“Please,” Credence begs. “Mr. Graves, please.”

“I want to suck you off,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence bucks his hips up against the man’s body just at the thought.

“You’re not one of those types that is saving himself for marriage, are you?” Mr. Graves says. “I don’t have to talk you through how a blowjob doesn’t count, do I?”

“I don’t care,” Credence says. He’d give Mr. Graves his whole body if he wanted it at this point.

“I’ll never marry anyway,” he adds.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mr. Graves says, “but I understand.”

Credence feels strangely grateful for that, and even lets himself believe that Mr. Graves does understand, that anyone could. But it’s awful to contemplate that someone as beautiful as Mr. Graves, someone who clearly lives his life without a care about the consequences of sin, should live out his earthly days in this terrible loneliness.

He doesn’t want to think about it, so he leans forward a little and kisses Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves kisses him back with an open mouth. He scrapes his teeth against Credence lower lip, then sucks it into his mouth. Credence groans, feeling like the sound scratches the inside of his throat.

Then Mr. Graves pulls away.

Credence blinks at him.

“Do you want me to use a condom for this?” he asks.

“No,” Credence says. “Those don’t work anyway.”

Besides, he wants to be able to feel everything.

“That’s really not true,” Mr. Graves says, “but I’m not going to try to convince you when I’d rather kiss you.”

His mouth moves down to Credence’s chin and then along his jaw, kissing him and tasting his skin. Credence closes his eyes and puts his arms around Mr. Graves’ body. His back feels so broad under his hands, and his skin is hot and a bit damp with sweat. Credence digs his fingers in.

“God,” Mr. Graves says against Credence’s neck.

His hands are on Credence’s chest again, pushing his shirt open. He bends down and starts to kiss Credence’s collarbone, then his breastbone. He puts his open mouth over one of Credence’s nipples next and Credence feels himself jerk sharply, like he’s been shocked. He shivers as Mr. Graves works his way down his ribs, kissing the skin over each bone.

Mr. Graves slips out of his grip slowly and Credence doesn’t really realize until he’s got his hands on the back of his neck and then up into his hair. He didn’t ask if he could touch Mr. Graves’ hair. But Mr. Graves doesn’t stop him from messing it up with both hands.

Credence rocks his hips just for the little bit of friction he gets from his own body and his clothing, but it’s not enough. He almost shouts when Mr. Graves’ hand closes over the base of his erection through his pants. Instead, the sound comes out of him strangled and still too loud.

“That’s good,” Mr. Graves says. “Make all the noise you need to, Credence. You’ve been so patient.”

He doesn’t feel very patient now.

Mr. Graves holds his hips down with one hand and Credence cracks his eyes open just to find out where Mr. Graves’ other hand has gone. He sees Mr. Graves looking up at him from between his legs and it’s almost too much to behold. Credence feels like he could go blind from this. He probably deserves to.

His whole body has been coaxed forward somehow, so that he’s slouched with his shirt hanging open and his legs spread even wider. How did that happen? When did it happen?

Oh, and Mr. Graves’ other hand must be on his own dick. Credence can only see the movement in his upper arm, but he recognizes it.

He blinks, and the scene before him doesn’t change.

Mr. Graves leans forward and kisses his belt buckle lightly.

“Oh,” Credence says.

When Mr. Graves puts his hand on Credence’s belt and starts to open it, he feels a sudden spike of fear. His heart’s already pounding, but suddenly he also can’t breathe.

He shouldn’t let Mr. Graves do this, he knows he shouldn’t. It’s disgusting; it’s supposed to be disgusting. How could he possibly want this? How could he let Mr. Graves see him like this?

Mr. Graves gets his belt open and pulls the button of Credence’s fly open with his teeth, then the zipper.

For a moment, Credence wishes he were dead instead of here.

Then Mr. Graves kisses his erection through the thin cotton of his underwear and Credence thinks he might actually die.

Mr. Graves uses two hands to pull down Credence’s pants past his knees. It isn’t easy, but Credence tries to move however he can to help.

His dick arches up from his body, tenting the fabric of his underwear. He knows he must look ridiculous. His erection twitches when Mr. Graves brushes his thumb against it over his underwear. He’s so hard that it hurts.

“Oh, you _are_ a gift, aren’t you?” Mr. Graves says.

Credence can tell that he’s not looking at his face. He swallows the embarrassing noise that wants to come out of his throat when Mr. Graves tugs on the waistband of his underwear. It’s just white cotton, gone sort of grey from being washed too often with other colors. Mr. Graves doesn’t seem to care. He pulls the elastic up and over the arch of Credence’s cock and then down his thighs. He touches Credence’s legs with both hands.

“Now remember,” Mr. Graves says, glancing up to meet Credence’s eyes, “you can make all the noise you want. I want to hear you, Credence.”

He swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Graves licks his lips and puts a hand around the base of Credence’s dick. He holds it straight up and looks at it for what seems like the longest moment of Credence’s entire life. Then his eyes move up to Credence’s face.

Mr. Graves leans forward just a little and kisses the very tip of Credence’s erection. Credence grabs the cushions under him so that he doesn’t grab Mr. Graves too hard. He stares into Mr. Graves’ eyes and Mr. Graves looks right back at him as he parts his lips and runs his tongue up the tip of Credence’s dick. He presses the end of his tongue into the slit in a way that makes Credence curl his toes and nearly kick.

“Please,” Credence says. “Oh, please.”

The sight of Mr. Graves smiling with his lips against Credence’s erection will, hopefully, stay in his memory forever.

He groans when Mr. Graves opens his mouth and puts it around the whole head of his cock. He jerks his hips up into the hot, wet feeling and Mr. Graves just lets him. He could hold his hips down, but he doesn’t.

“Sorry,” Credence says.

Then Mr. Graves begins to stroke him from the base up until his mouth meets his fist. Credence feels engulfed. He fights with himself to keep his eyes open, because he wants to see this. But it also makes him want to scream.

“Good,” he says. “That feels so good.”

“Thank you,” he says, watching Mr. Graves’ mouth move on his cock.

It looks just like something from pornography, but it feels better than he could have ever imagined. His legs shake. He feels like the heat of Mr. Graves’ tongue moving against the head of his cock will set him on fire.

“It’s so good,” he says, because he’s babbling now. “I’ve never felt so good.”

When Mr. Graves pushes down, Credence can feel the back of his throat. He can feel his cock being truly swallowed down and it makes him nearly sob. He feels like he’s going to fly to pieces or lose his mind. He’s damned, he knows it, but this earthly pleasure feels worth it.

Now, Mr. Graves does hold his hips down, but it hardly matters when he’s practically got his nose buried in the dark hair around Credence’s cock.

Just when Credence thinks he’s going to come, that he’s close and he ought to say something, Mr. Graves pulls back. He leaves Credence shivering and bereft. His hips rock up against nothing.

“No,” he says. “Please no, don’t stop. Don’t.”

Mr. Graves strokes him firmly with one hand, though not as tightly as Credence would touch himself. His cock is wet with Mr. Graves’ spit.

“Please, Mr. Graves, don’t stop,” he begs.

Apparently taking pity on him, Mr. Graves puts the tip of Credence’s dick back in his mouth. It feels, somehow, even better. He doesn’t feel in control of his body anymore; he’s hot all over and shaking. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Mr. Graves cups a warm hand around Credence’s balls and tugs on them just enough to make him cry out from pleasure.

“Oh!” he says. “Fuck me!”

And he means it, but he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Panicked, he looks down at Mr. Graves, who looks up at him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says. “I just — I don’t know. I don’t usually talk like that. Oh, it just feels so good.”

He makes a disappointed little whine when Mr. Graves takes his mouth off of him again, even though he uses his hand in its place.

“I didn’t presume that you did,” Mr. Graves says, and his voice sounds a little deeper and rougher. “But I’m glad you’re being so vocal.”

“I can’t believe it,” Credence says, about himself, but also about everything that’s happened and is happening.

Mr. Graves kisses the very tip of his cock and then looks at him.

“Maybe I meant it,” he says. “A little.”

“Is there something you want, Credence?” Mr. Graves asks.

It’s as though he’s hit some kind of plateau of arousal and fear and embarrassment, that he feels so much of it all that he can’t possibly feel more. Surely, this will be his only and last opportunity, and he wants to know.

“Yes,” he says.

He looks at Mr. Graves and waits for him to ask him what it is he wants. But all he gets is silence and the words are finally right there on the tip of Credence’s tongue.

“Would you,” he begins, “put your fingers inside me?”

Nervously, he adds, “Please?”

“That’s all you want?” Mr. Graves asks. “Your desires are so easy to fulfill.”

Credence sighs with relief, and it turns into a series of panting breaths as Mr. Graves strokes his cock with one hand. It’s not all he wants, but he only has so much time. He has never expected to get everything he wants, but he’s happy to get only a little.

Mr. Graves takes his hands off Credence entirely, though, and that nearly makes him take it all back.

“Hold on,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m just getting something from my wallet.”

Anxiously, Credence watches him pick up his folded pants and take his wallet out of his back pocket. He opens it and takes out something small.

“I swear I don’t keep this just for me,” he says. “It’s just always good to have condoms and lube on hand in this business.”

Credence can only blink at him. “If you say so.”

He tears the little package open and squeezes the clear fluid onto two fingers of his right hand, then works it between those fingers and his thumb.

“You’re sure?” Mr. Graves asks.

“Yes,” Credence says, feeling a little like he will just die if Mr. Graves doesn’t touch him again soon.

But Mr. Graves does touch him again, putting a hand around his cock and then his mouth against the end of it. He sucks hard on the head of Credence’s cock just as he touches him with wet fingers. Both things make Credence’s whole body tense up, but then when he relaxes he can feel Mr. Graves’ finger sliding into him while his thumb just touches the skin there again and again like it’s supposed to feel this good.

It does feel good — that’s is the most amazing thing, it feels good and only good. A little strange maybe, but it doesn’t hurt.

Mr. Graves touching him couldn’t be more different from how Credence touches himself. He goes slowly and he’s so gentle. He’s careful. His hands are so warm against Credence’s skin, even inside his body. Credence tries to push himself down on Mr. Graves’ fingers, but really just slides down the seat.

“Oh,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence only whines softly about how his mouth isn’t on his cock right that second.

“You like this,” he says. “Don’t you?”

Knowing that he shouldn’t, Credence feels embarrassed and sick. But he really has hit some kind of limit for those feelings, because it’s just not as bad as it usually is.

Then Mr. Graves curls his finger inside of Credence, moves it until the pressure feels more like something else. His legs shake a little and he feels something dripping down his cock that might not be Mr. Graves’ spit. Actually, he’s sure it isn’t when Mr. Graves makes a show of licking the underside of his cock.

“I think I might come soon,” Credence says.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says.

He puts his mouth back on Credence’s cock as he pushes his second finger in alongside the first. Even that doesn’t hurt, though Credence feels it a lot more. He groans loudly, his voice pitching up at the end when Mr. Graves moves his fingers inside him.

Credence moves his hips in sharp jerks, his whole body feeling tense. He’s so close and Mr. Graves seems to know just how to touch him to push him toward the edge faster.

“Mr. Graves,” he tries to say, “I’m going to come.”

He just hopes the words are clear enough, though maybe they aren’t because Mr. Graves doesn’t do anything different. He glances up at Credence and Credence wishes he could keep his eyes open.

But he can’t, he can’t.

He feels something hot and cold spark down his spine and then his whole body tenses. His thighs ache with it. He nearly knocks his head on the mirror behind him again. The sounds he makes must be so ugly and he can’t even imagine how he looks, he doesn’t think about it. His mind goes blissfully, wonderfully blank.

His muscles twitch a little even after, his shoulders shaking.

Credence can’t catch his breath.

“Wow,” Mr. Graves says.

He still has a hand around Credence’s cock and touches it very gently. His fingers are still inside of him. Honestly, it’s amazing. He knows it shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t think it is. But it really, really is. This is the best Credence has ever felt, sitting in a tiny mirrored room with his clothes half off and a man’s fingers up him.

When he finally feels like he can breathe, Credence sighs.

“That was amazing,” he says.

“It looked like it felt amazing,” Mr. Graves says.

“It did,” Credence says, and he smiles a little.

When Mr. Graves pulls his fingers out, Credence feels wet and boneless. He wants to just slide off the cushions under him and out of his clothes and lay on top of Mr. Graves. Instead, he just sighs again.

“Fuck, you’re a sight,” Mr. Graves says.

When Credence opens his eyes and looks at him, he can tell that Mr. Graves must be stroking his own cock with the hand that he just used to finger Credence. That’s filthy, really, but he also wants to be able to see.

He struggles to sit up and look at Mr. Graves, who is still on his knees in front of him. Little electric shock thrills of pleasure still feel like they’re running through him, making his body not work quite right.

Without exactly meaning to, Credence folds himself over and puts his arms around Mr. Graves. He kisses him without asking first, but Mr. Graves kisses back hard. His mouth is wet and bitter with the taste of Credence’s come. It’s _amazing_.

Mr. Graves starts to get up, holding onto Credence’s shoulders and pushing him back into his seat. He doesn’t stop kissing Credence the whole time. It feels so good everywhere that Mr. Graves’ skin touches him. Their chest and legs and hips touch. Credence can even feel Mr. Graves’ knuckles against his belly as he strokes himself.

He still wants so much.

When Mr. Graves pulls away from the kiss and holds Credence against the cushions behind him with a hand on his shoulder, he has what feels like his last chance to ask.

“I want to taste you,” he says. “Please, may I?”

Mr. Graves stares at him and begins to look a bit distressed. Credence loses some of his confidence that Mr. Graves will give him what he wants, even though he has every other time.

“Christ,” Mr. Graves says. “Yes, yes, how do you want it?”

Credence smiles a little, amused at Mr. Graves’ language.

“I’m not sure,” Credence says, because actually he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he could do what Mr. Graves did for him, he’s not sure he’d know what to do. But he wants to know how it feels to have Mr. Graves’ cock in his mouth.

“I think I’d like to put you in my mouth,” he says.

“You can do anything you want to me,” Mr. Graves says, before kissing Credence’s mouth hard.

He touches Credence’s cheek before he pulls away and stands up.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Graves says, standing before Credence with his cock in his hand.

For just a second, Credence feels overwhelmed. His eyes get wider and he tries to see everything at once, but there’s really too much to look at.

He doesn’t get up so much as simply slide out of his seat, the velvet or whatever it is smooth against his naked skin. He goes to his knees before Mr. Graves. It reminds him of worship, being on his knees like this. He looks up at Mr. Graves.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Mr. Graves says, looking down at him. “I could look at you like this forever.”

He’s still touching himself, masturbating, but he has one hand free and Credence reaches out and takes his wrist. He wants Mr. Graves to touch him, his face and his neck and his hair. He likes how it feels when Mr. Graves holds his head in his hands.

“Show me what to do,” he says. “Please.”

“I don’t think I have time for that,” Mr. Graves says. “I can’t last much longer, Credence. I apologize.”

He feels so nervous then, unsure of what he should do. He licks his lips and then opens his mouth. His jaw only trembles a little. He hopes Mr. Graves will just understand it as an invitation. He’s so terribly nervous and yet his cock feels tender with arousal again already.

“This is what you want?” Mr. Graves asks. He moves just a little bit forward and Credence feels his cock brush against his lower lip. It’s hot and wet.

He can’t speak so he just nods slightly.

“You’re sure?” Mr. Graves asks.

And really, is it so much that Credence can’t do it himself? His mouth is open and Mr. Graves is right there, holding the back of Credence’s head in one hand and his cock in the other. Credence puts his mouth on the head, just the head, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all and doesn’t want to choke.

He’s still looking up at Mr. Graves and Mr. Graves is still watching him.

Mostly, Credence knows, he’s using his hand to pleasure himself. Credence can’t be doing much at all. He tries not to move or let his teeth touch Mr. Graves’ skin. But he can taste him, salt and bitterness and heat on his tongue.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “I’m going to come in your mouth like this.”

His forehead is all lines as he stares down at Credence and his mouth hangs open, with lips still very red from being on Credence’s dick. He’s beautiful, Credence thinks. He wants this.

He watches Mr. Graves’ body shudder and tastes bitterness as Mr. Graves’ semen fills his mouth. It’s awful and filthy, and Credence swallows it down. He swallows and then he swallows again, his lips closing tight around Mr. Graves’ cock. He shuts his eyes and doesn’t open them again until he’s done.

His whole mouth still tastes bitter after Mr. Graves pulls away. Credence licks his lips, then reaches up and touches his wet mouth.

“I need to catch my breath,” Mr. Graves says, before leaning down and pulling Credence up onto his feet. Credence would go anywhere Mr. Graves wanted him to, so he follows him to the velvet seating where he lays down  with his knees bent and his feet on the seat. Credence sits down at his feet and looks over him, trying to commit every freckle to memory in the low light.

Mr. Graves picks up his arm and checks his watch.

“Shit, it’s nearly midnight,” he says. “I have to go back to work.”

Credence feels a burst of panic.

“I have to go,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Mr. Graves says. “No, I have a few minutes. And it’s not that big a deal, I do own the place after all.”

“No,” Credence says. “I’m sorry. There’s someone — she said she would pick me up.”

“Oh!” Mr. Graves says.

He sits up, and Credence is distracted by the way his muscles flex and his skin folds.

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Graves says.

He grabs his underwear while Credence pulls his back up his legs. He buttons up his shirt as best he can with fumbling hands, then pulls his pants up while Mr. Graves is putting on his own shirt.

“Here’s your tie back,” he says, handing it to Credence after he’s buckled his belt.

“Thank you,” he says, but he doesn’t know if he could tie it in his current state. He hangs it around his neck and grabs his jacket.

“Need a hand?” Mr. Graves asks, tying his shoe.

He looks mostly dressed, except for his tie and vest.

Credence checks his pockets for his phone and sees he has only about seven minutes, unless Tina will wait for him.

“I’m fine,” Credence says, but Mr. Graves steps into his space and pulls on each end of his tie. In a few motions he ties a simple knot and then adjusts it comfortably at the base of his throat.

“I’d hope you’re better off than that,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence looks up at him, with the collar of his shirt unbuttoned so that part of his chest is visible. He swallows and his mouth still tastes like Mr. Graves’ semen.

“Yes,” he says.

“I had an amazing time with you,” Mr. Graves says. “I hope you’ll remember this night with fondness, Credence.”

“I will, sir,” he replies. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Mr. Graves says.

He leans in and kisses Credence’s lips lightly, still holding onto his tie.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“So are you,” Credence says.

Mr. Graves pulls away and puts his hands on Credence’s shoulders.

“I doubt you’ll listen to me,” he says, “but I want you to know that you don’t have any reason to feel bad about anything we did. If it’s what you wanted, that’s good. If you decide it wasn’t, then blame me. But it’s not a sin, or whatever anyone’s told you.”

Credence looks at Mr. Graves and doesn’t say anything. What can he say? He knows that’s not true, even if he would like to think it is. He knows he wanted it; he knows Mr. Graves isn’t to blame for anything. Perhaps he’s a bit more damned, but Credence already knew he was damned. The thought matters as much as the action, after all, and Credence has had a lot of thoughts over the years.

“I enjoyed everything we did,” Credence says, finally. “Thank you.”

“Well,” Mr. Graves says. “That’s good.”

He picks up his tie and vest, but doesn’t put them on before he goes to the door.

“Do you have everything?” he asks Credence.

He nods, and Mr. Graves opens the door.

“Take care of yourself,” Mr. Graves says, holding the door open for him.

Credence goes and Mr. Graves follows him, but only so far. He cuts around the stage and goes toward the bar, where the blond woman begins talking with him as soon as she sees him. She looks over and catches Credence staring at them from a distance. He looks away and quickly walks away.

It’s over now. He has to go. He would have liked to say goodbye to Mr. Graves properly and even to Apollo. But he doesn’t want to miss his chance for a safe ride back to the hotel. When he gets there he can shower and wash away any evidence of the night, then sleep off the effects of his drinks.

He goes out the way that he came in, into a parking lot full of cars. He looks around for a moment, afraid that Tina won’t be there after all. He checks his phone and it says it’s two minutes after twelve.

A car pulls in, then: a dark sedan. The window rolls down and Tina Goldstein smiles at him from the driver’s side seat.

“Hi!” she says.

“Hello,” he replies.

“Did you have fun?” she asks.

Credence smiles a little bit. “Yes.”

“Good,” she says.

He walks around the front of her car to get in the passenger side.

“Look, Credence,” she says. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“No,” he says, though he does. “I should go back.”

She looks at him as the overhead light goes out above them. “Alright.”

They drive back to the hotel in silence and Credence looks out the window at the lights of the city, which looks so different from New York but still kind of the same. Maybe all cities are like this, he thinks, with highways and too many lights. He’s not sure he could live anywhere else, even if cities are full of wickedness and sin.

“Hey, do you mind if I just… give you my phone number?” Tina asks, as they turn into the hotel’s parking lot. “In case you need a ride or anything.”

Credence looks at her.

“I can’t keep it on my phone,” he says.

“That’s fine,” she says. “I’ll write it down.”

He doesn’t know why she wants to, but he doesn’t see any harm in it. She’s not asking him for his number or anything like that.

She takes a napkin out of the center console and pulls a pen out of her pocket, using the steering wheel to write on.

“Here,” she says. “If you need anything while you’re in Atlanta, just give me a call. I’m happy to help somebody from back home.”

“Thank you,” Credence says, taking the napkin. He tucks it into his pocket with all his one dollar bills.

Then he opens the passenger side door and gets out. He sighs a little, sorry to see the night have come to an end but not actually sorry for anything he did. At least for the moment, he’s not sorry at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr @ jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com
> 
> There's a sequel now :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the heat between your legs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12133122) by [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr)




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